


The Most Important Ingredient

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law
Genre: Cooking, Cooking is love, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-28
Updated: 2013-11-28
Packaged: 2018-01-02 21:57:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Wes cooked for Travis, and one time Travis cooked for Wes. Oneshot. Wesvis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Important Ingredient

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 11.28.13.
> 
> This may in fact be the fluffiest thing I have ever written. Enjoy!

_“Cooking is like love. It should be entered into with abandon or not at all.”_  
 _—Harriet Van Horne_

\---

1\. _Chicken Parm_

Travis arrives twenty minutes late. Luckily, Wes is used to his partner’s ways and has taken this into account, so he’s just pulling the chicken out of the oven when the doorbell rings.

“You’re late.”

Travis grins unrepentantly and shoves his way inside. “I was going to get wine, but I know nothing about wine, so I brought beer instead. Ooh, chicken parm! I love chicken parm!”

“Don’t touch that—!” Wes rushes forward to save the meal from hungry fingers, and conversation falls flat for a bit.

When Travis has been banished to the couch with the beer, Wes makes up two plates and carries them carefully over. “You spill on my couch, I’ll use your body for fertilizer.”

Travis takes the plate with a grin, leaning back into the cushions. “Why don’t you have tables and chairs?” he asks, sticking his face above the plate and inhaling.

“The dining room set stayed with Alex,” Wes says, setting Travis’s beer on a coaster. “Use the coasters, dammit. That’s what they’re there for.”

“We should go shopping!” Travis says enthusiastically, ignoring him. “I know all the great places to buy furniture. We could get an awesome deal.”

And Wes rolls his eyes, but secretly he’s a little pleased.

After a few minutes of eating, Travis asks, “So what’s the best part about having your own house?”

Immediately, Wes replies, “The kitchen.” He smiles fondly down at his plate. “I’ve missed cooking.”

“Does this mean you’ll cook for me more?” Travis asks, shoveling a forkful of noodles into his mouth. 

Wes makes a face and ignores the flutter in his belly at the thought. “In your dreams.”

“Bu’ y’ m’de me—“

“ _Swallow_.”

Travis swallows and gives him a mischievous leer. “But you made me chicken parm.”

“You helped me move.”

“So did two of my foster brothers and Robinson from work. But I don’t see my brothers or Robinson here.”

“I gave them a ten-dollar coupon to Fiesta Dave’s,” Wes replies archly.

Travis just grins. “And I’m here eating chicken parm.” He leans back smugly, nudging Wes with his foot. “It’s okay to admit I’m special, Wes. I can take it.”

The flutter in Wes’s belly blooms into a happy, pulsing warmth. It surprises Wes. He doesn’t like it.

He tells himself it’s heartburn (even though it’s much too low and not painful at all) and shoves Travis’s foot away. “You’re especially annoying, you mean,” he grouses, not unkindly.

Travis laughs and goes back for seconds.

**XXXX**

2\. _Sushi and Tempura_

Travis makes it three hours into the stakeout before he asks Wes if he wants anything. “I think I saw a Burger Barn around the corner, I can get you something if you want.”

“Don’t get Burger Barn,” Wes says with a repulsed scowl, peering through the binoculars. “Burger Barn is nothing but fat and carcinogens. I brought food. The blue cooler in the back.”

“Food?” Travis lights up, twisting to reach the back. “God, I love it when you cook.” He twists back around and sets the cooler in his lap, digging inside with all the enthusiasm of a child on Christmas morning.

His face falls when he pulls out the first container. “Sushi? Wes, I hate sushi,” he whines in his _You should know me better_ voice. 

Wes rolls his eyes and tries not to sigh too loudly. “Keep going,” he says absently, squinting. “Do you ever clean these binoculars?”

“Tempura!” Travis exclaims, tossing the Tupperware of sushi on Wes’s lap. There’s the sound of the lid being popped off and happy scarfing noises. “I wuff t’mpra,” Travis mumbles, and this time Wes doesn’t look over because he knows Travis will be talking with his mouth open. Wes is continually amazed by the level of fondness he has for this man and some of his more disgusting habits.

“It’s cold,” Wes warns, even though by now Travis already know it.

“Cold tempura is better than no tempura,” Travis chirps, popping another piece into his mouth and making happy orgasmic noises.

Wes sighs and lowers the binoculars, opening his sushi with less vigor than his partner. “It’s better eaten hot,” he says absently, still watching the house. “You should try it then.”

There’s a long pause. Wes shifts, turning to Travis, only to find Travis is watching him with a grin on his face.

“Did you just offer to cook hot tempura for me?” Travis asks with a leer, taking a long, slow bite of piece of sweet potato.

“That’s not—”

“Because I think that sounds like a wonderful idea.” Travis leans back with a pleased murmur, munching at his food. “Seriously, Wes, you should just cook for me every day. That would be awesome.”

Wes stares at his partner for a long minute before slowly turning back to the house they’re watching. _That sounded an awful lot like a proposal,_ he doesn’t say. _Did you mean it like that?_ he doesn’t ask.

He tries not to let it mean anything. Travis definitely didn’t mean anything by it. So it’s nothing to worry about—

“Hey, Wes?”

Wes turns and Travis pops a piece of tempura in his mouth. Travis grins encouragingly, and slowly, Wes chews on the battered piece of potato. When he finally swallows past a dry throat, Travis leans back in his seat, cradling the Tupperware protectively in his lap. 

“Thanks for the food, babe.” Still grinning, Travis pops another piece of tempura into his mouth.

Wes turns back to the house and tries to ignore the warm glow in his stomach.

**XXXX**

3\. _Meatballs In Orange Sauce_

They’ve survived an entire year in therapy, so to celebrate this achievement, Dr. Ryan proposes a potluck. Everyone is greatly enthused with the idea.

This being therapy, though, Dr. Ryan turns it into an assignment. Each person has to bring one of their partner’s favorite dishes. Because they can’t just ever have a normal party. They have to _bond_.

Wes comes in five minutes late, carrying a crockpot wrapped in a towel, and it shows personal growth that he’s actually apologizing as he comes in. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, veering towards the folding table for the food. “I did time everything, but something’s wrong with the crockpot. It took twice as long as it should have.”

“Does this mean we’re going shopping for a new crockpot?” Travis asks as he bounces up from his seat, like shopping for new cookware is something they do together all the time. He peers over Wes’s shoulder as Wes plugs the crockpot in, taking a breath. “What did you make me?”

“Orange meatballs,” Wes says absently, fiddling with the buttons on the crockpot. It had been hard to pick just one food because Travis has a tendency to eat anything, but Wes made the meatballs last summer for the police charity barbeque, and since he’d seen Travis going back for fourths, Wes figured these would be a hit.

Travis makes a pleased sound in his throat, reaching over to lift the lid. “Those yummy meatballs in the orange sauce? With the little raisins in them?”

“Those ones,” Wes confirms, shoving Travis away and ignoring the flutter in his stomach. “Go sit down.”

When Wes and Travis have both returned to their seats, Dr. Ryan makes them go around the room and tell what they brought, as well as why they brought it. Wes tells the group the police barbeque story, doing his best to not sound creepy or stalkery (there was a very good reason Wes was watching how many times Travis went back for the meatballs, and if they just give him a second Wes could totally come up with it).

Travis leans back in his chair. “Wow. You made me meatballs just because you remembered I liked them six months ago? Now I feel bad. I just went to the supermarket and bought you a cake.”

“A cake?” Wes gives Travis his _It’s been seven years, don’t you know me?_ look, which involves an annoyed scowl and a raised eyebrow.

Travis grins impishly. “Cinnamon coffee cake.” He puts his hand by his mouth and, turning to the group, says in a stage whisper, “It’s his favorite secret indulgence he thinks I don’t know about.” Wes rolls his eyes and sits back in his chair.

“Yeah, but doesn’t that say something?” Clyde asks. “Wes made Travis something, but Travis just bought something.” The other man shrugs. “Kinda seems like Travis doesn’t care as much.” Rozelle elbows him in the ribs, but the damage has been done. Wes stiffens and doesn’t look at Travis; Travis slumps in his seat.

“I don’t cook,” Travis grumbles, crossing his arms defensively.

“The value of a gift,” Dr. Ryan cuts in before things can get worse, “is not in monetary value or time spent creating it. Every time you give someone a gift, you are conveying some feelings to them. It could be affection, or gratitude, or even love. The true value of a gift is what you are feeling and conveying when you give it to your partner.”

She turns to Travis. “Travis, what are you conveying with your coffee cake?”

Travis shifts, looking uncomfortable the way he does whenever his emotions are put on the spot. “I don’t know. I was thinking…Wes likes coffee cake.”

Dr. Ryan studies him for a moment, like she knows there’s more to it, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she turns to Wes. “Alright, Wes. What are you conveying to Travis with the meatballs you made?”

Wes doesn’t tell her about the way he watched Travis at the police barbeque, how he saw Travis’s eyes flutter happily as he went back for a third helping, a fourth. He doesn’t tell her about getting up this morning to make the recipe, trying to replicate it the same way he did six months ago, just so maybe he could see that undisguised happiness on his partner’s face. How all he wants to do lately is feed Travis, because when Travis is eating his food, he’s happy, and it’s so hard for Wes to make Travis happy any other way.

He doesn’t tell her that all he wants to do, really, is just make Travis happy.

Instead, he huffs and says, “Right now? Exasperation, mostly,” and ignores Travis’s grumbles.

It doesn’t escape his notice that Mrs. Dumont and Rozelle share a knowing look. He pretends like he didn’t see it.

**XXXX**

4\. _Chicken Noodle Soup_

Travis leans pitifully on the door and sniffs. “Zee? I’b dying.”

“You’re not dying, idiot, you have the flu,” Wes grumbles, sliding inside the apartment without touching his partner. “What are you doing up? Go sit down.”

Sniffing again, Travis stumbles to the couch, quickly cocooning himself in a blanket. He watches blearily as Wes goes to the kitchen and starts unpacking the bag he brought. “Wazzat?”

“I brought you soup,” Wes announces, carefully pulling out a container. With remarkable ease he pulls open one of Travis’s cupboards and gets a bowl, like he knows where everything in Travis’s kitchen is even though he’s been here, like, twice. “And orange juice, and ginger.” He pulls a ladle out of his bag, because he’s not certain that Travis owns a ladle, and pours some of the hot soup in the bowl. “Here, come over and eat.”

Travis shuffles to the island as Wes brings the bowl over. The other man blinks, sniffs, and says, “You bade be jiggen doup?”

“I did not make you chicken soup,” Wes says defensively, turning back to the counter. “How’s your stomach feeling?”

“You just habbened to hab jiggen doup in your vridge?” Travis asks. Wes can hear the grin in his partner’s voice.

He blushes and doesn’t turn around so Travis can’t see. “Shut up and eat your soup.”

Travis chuckles a little, but he sits down and leans over the soup, inhaling the steam as best he can with a stuffed nose. “Dangs, Wes.”

“Sure,” Wes says, bringing a glass of orange juice over. Since Travis is already going at the soup with gusto, Wes figures his stomach is just fine. He’ll save the ginger for later, then.

Travis quickly burns through the first bowl and requests another. When Wes turns around, refill in hand, he finds Travis staring at him, a goofy smile on his face.

“What?”

“You’re a good bardner, Wes,” Travis exclaims, leaning over the soup again. “I dew you cared.” Wes blushes, and this time Travis sees it. Turning quickly, Wes sets about cleaning up, even though there isn’t much of a mess at all.

“You’re delusional,” he retorts, deflecting because that’s what he’s good at. “I just want you back in working shape ASAP. I’m partnered with Dorset while you’re out, you know how much I hate Dorset. He annoys me more than you do, which is saying something.”

Travis just chuckles into his soup. “Lub you doo, man.”

Wes’s heart flip-flops, and he puts the soup in the fridge to cover it up.

**XXXX**

5\. _Enchiladas and Tiramisu_

“So what are you buying me for lunch?” Travis asks, propping his chin on his hands. “Something delicious, I hope. I was thinking J’s Steakhouse.”

“No,” Wes snaps, scribbling his signature on a report.

Travis gasps dramatically. “ _No?_ But Wes! It’s my _birthday!_ ”

“I know. It’s all you’ve been talking about for a week.” Wes carefully lines up the pages of his report and staples them together. “I’m not buying you lunch.”

“Some partner you are,” Travis grumbles, slouching in his seat.

Thirty seconds later, he sits up, face alight with glee. “You made me lunch, didn’t you?”

The tips of Wes’s ears turn red. “Shut up.”

“You _did!_ “ Travis crows, spinning in his seat. “I take it back. You rock. Let’s eat!” He thumps his desk with a grin. “Go, Wes, go!”

“I hate you,” Wes growls, but he puts his file away and heads to the break room.

Travis is practically vibrating when Wes returns with three Tupperware containers. He reaches for one, but Wes slaps his hand away and puts a different one in front of him. “Dessert second, food first.”

“You made me dessert?” Travis breathes, popping open the lid. “And enchiladas? Best. Partner. Ever.”

Several coworkers are quietly snickering behind their hands. Wes shoots them a glower and sits, opening his own Tupperware and keeping a protective arm between Travis and dessert. “Shut up and eat.”

At the first bite, Travis is making enthusiastic happy, noises. The second bite, he frowns, like he’s trying to remember something. By the third bite he’s staring thoughtfully at Wes as he chews. Wes busies himself with his salad and pretends not to notice.

“Wes,” Travis says slowly, “These taste an awful lot like my eleventh foster mom’s enchiladas.”

“Yes?” Wes replies, studying a crouton like it has all the secrets of the world in its porous little body.

Travis sighs. “Wes. Are these my eleventh foster mom’s enchiladas?”

Wes pops the crouton in his mouth and chews vigorously. Travis’s eyes widen.

“It is! Seriously?” Travis almost drops his fork. “How did you know?” Without waiting for an answer, he reaches over the desk and grabs the Tupperware with dessert in it. He pops the lid and blinks; the treat inside is enough for him to put the pieces together. “Tiramisu. You’ve been talking to Money.”

“Maybe,” Wes says noncommittally, which is as much confirmation as Travis needs.

He stares at Wes. “You went, by yourself, to Money’s, just to find out my favorite birthday meal? And _then_ you went, alone, to my foster mom and not only asked her for her secret, closely-guarded enchilada recipe, but somehow managed to get her to _give it to you?_ ” There’s surprised awe in Travis’s voice, but there’s something underneath that, like he’s never had someone do so much for him. Wes’s stomach flutters.

Wes looks down and stabs his salad. “It’s your birthday.”

Travis doesn’t say anything; after a minute, Wes looks glances up and there’s a look on Travis’ face he’s never seen before. One he’s not quite sure how to decipher. Travis is smiling but there’s nothing teasing about it, and his eyes are soft like he’s looking at a child or small animal. The closest equivalent Wes can come up with is he’s seen something almost similar on Travis’s face when he’s looking at some of the various women he’s gone out with.

But that’s not it. That’s definitely not it, because Travis doesn’t feel like that about Wes. So he has no idea what this look means.

“What?”

Travis just keeps giving him that look. “Nothing. Just…” Travis chuckles and shakes his head. “Sometimes you’re kind of awesome, Wes.”

Wes stabs his salad again and tries not to blush. “Whatever. Happy birthday. Eat your food.”

Something in his chest glows with warmth. 

**XXXX**

6\. _Roasted Duck Breast with Plum Sauce_

“Wes!” Travis looks surprised, and maybe a little nervous at seeing Wes at his door. “You’re, uh, you’re early.”

“Do you know me at all? Of course I’m early.” Wes holds up the paper bag in his hands. “I brought wine, as requested. Let me in.”

That is definitely nervousness on Travis’s face, as he hesitates, but he finally steps aside. “Fine, but—you’re early, so it’s not done yet.”

“What’s not done—” Travis’s apartment is not huge. Wes is inside in three steps, and he stops dead in his tracks.

The kitchen table has a brand new tablecloth on it, and two long tapered candles sit in flea market candlesticks, casting a soft glow over the table. Two red roses rest—Wes snorts at this—in an empty beer bottle, the label torn off. The air is full of the smells of cooking, something familiar that Wes can almost recognize.

Wes stares at the romantic tableau, confused and not liking it. He doesn’t know why Travis called him here tonight when this is clearly set up for a romantic evening, because it can’t be what he’s thinking this is. It can’t be. Because Travis doesn’t feel that way. “You’re having a date?” he asks flatly, hands tightening on the wine bag.

“Uh…sort of.” Travis moves into sight, sheepishly rubbing his neck. “You came early. I was gonna have it all done before you showed.”

Wes narrows his eyes at his partner. “I’m not going to be your wingman, Travis.”

“Table’s only set for two, Wes,” Travis says lightly, but there’s a serious undertone to the words and Travis’s eyes are crinkled at the corners, the way he gets when he’s completely anxious but trying not to show it. An annoying little hope flutters in Wes’s chest.

“Travis, what _is_ all of this?”

A timer goes off. “Oh, food’s ready.” Avoiding the question, Travis turns to the kitchen. “Sit down, Wes, and we’ll eat.”

Wes sits, feeling dazed as he watches Travis pull a pan out of the oven. “I didn’t even know you knew what an oven was for,” he remarks, because sniping at Travis is familiar, and he’s feeling rather lost. Wes doesn’t like feeling lost when it comes to Travis.

“I have all sorts of hidden depths, Wes,” Travis quips, bringing the pan to the island.

Wes sits up, his mind connecting the delectable smells in the apartment with the dish on the island. “That’s—”

“Roasted duck breast in plum sauce.”

Wes stares at the dish. He stares at Travis. And then he gets up. “I’m going to open this wine,” he declares, finding Travis’s corkscrew (i.e. the one he gave Travis, because before meeting Wes Travis did not believe in corkscrews). 

He takes one of Travis’s mismatched wine glasses and pours a hefty amount. Fortifying himself with eighty-dollar wine, he leans against the counter, watching his partner pour plum sauce over the duck.

“Why did you make _that?_ ”

Travis focuses on what he’s doing so intently that his avoidance is obvious. “Because this is the meal you make for clients, or when your mother comes to visit. This is your cook-to-impress meal.” Travis takes a breath and turns to look at Wes, the nervousness shining beneath his skin like a light. “Because this is what you make when there’s something important and you don’t want to mess it up.”

Wes frowns at Travis. “You’ve been talking to Alex.”

“She gave me the recipe.”

“Ah.” He takes a hearty swallow of wine. “But _why_ did you make _that?_ ”

Travis gives a halfhearted grin and avoids the question by asking, “Do you want to eat? It’s all ready.”

“ _Travis_.”

“Okay, fine.” Travis takes a breath, looks like he’s trying to figure out how to phrase whatever he’s about to say. Wes keeps drinking and waits.

“You’ve been cooking for me,” Travis finally says.

This whole spectacle is surreal enough that the non-sequitur barely throws him. “Yes.”

“So I get it.” Now, on top of the nervousness, Travis is looking frustrated. It’s not a good look on him. “I get it, Wes, okay? So can we just eat?”

Wes stares at his partner and says completely truthfully, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“That’s—” Travis bites back whatever he was going to say, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Fine. You’re going to make me talk about my emotions. But we’re not going to talk to Dr. Ryan about this until we work it out first, alright?”

“Okay,” Wes says, not really sure what he’s agreeing to but always willing to avoid talking about feelings with Dr. Ryan.

“Right.” Travis sucks in another breath. He turns to the duck, looking like he wants to fiddle with it to avoid this conversation entirely, then turns back to Wes, steeling himself. “Okay. You cook. What’s the most important ingredient?”

Wes blinks, frowns. “I don’t know. Salt, I guess?”

“What? No, it’s love, you dumbass.” Travis rolls his eyes. “That’s what all the cheesy Hallmark recipe sites say. Love is the most important ingredient. And you’ve been cooking for me a _lot_ lately, Wes.”

Wes can feel the color drain from his face. He downs the rest of his wine in one go and tries to appear completely nonchalant. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh for the love of…” Travis rolls his eyes and growls, “You damn, stubborn bastard—” and reaches out for Wes.

For a single heartbeat, Wes thinks Travis is going to punch him.

And then he’s not thinking that, because Travis’s lips are pressed up against his own, and Wes almost drops his glass. The kiss is bold and brash and just a little shy, which is generally nothing like what Wes imagined kissing Travis would be, but at the same time it’s somehow so very _Travis_ that Wes can’t remember why he thought it would be any different.

Travis tastes like plums. _You’ve been tasting the sauce_ , Wes almost says, but in the parts of his brain still working he realizes that’s stupid, so he tries to come up with something else.

Unfortunately, what comes out is a surprised, “What?”

Travis pulls back, looking both annoyed and amused. “The secret ingredient, Wes. I get it, okay? So will you _let me cook for you?_ ” The look on his face is saying _How much plainer can I get?_

The answer, Wes thinks, is _A lot_.

And then he looks at the duck and the sauce, and he thinks about what Travis said. And then he looks at Travis’s face.

And finally, _finally_ , he gets it too.

“Oh,” he says. He grabs at Travis’s arms. “Oh. I…yes. Yes, I would love for you to cook for me.”

It’s as close as they’re going to get to declarations of love right now, but it’s enough. Travis’s face breaks into a grin, and he leans in for another kiss. This time, Wes is prepared, and he meets him halfway.

Fifteen minutes later, they both pull away, mussed and flushed, and Travis comments with a gasp, “I think the food’s gone cold.”

Wes visibly pulls himself together, eyeing the pan on the island. “We can always heat it up later,” he remarks, running his hand through his hair. When he looks back, Travis is leering at him.

“That sounds good,” he purrs, wrapping his arms around Wes’s waist and pulling him in close. “Or maybe I can just make something else for you.”

“That works too,” Wes replies, and leans in again.

Travis tastes like plums. Right now, it’s Wes’s favorite flavor in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> I have this lovely headcanon where Wes is actually more in tune with his emotions than Travis is, he just bottles them up and denies them until they go away or become problems. But he’s horrible at picking up signals from other people.
> 
> Basically, they’re both emotionally stunted weirdos finding each other.


End file.
